We were standing beside an 11th-century abbey enjoying our first mountain views when my guide Rosario ruined the moment by mentioning that we'd be eating liver the next day.

What did liver have to do with anything? This trip to the Nebrodi national park in Sicily was all about finding the perfect sausage. The last liver I ate was in about 1978, more or less at gunpoint. Nevertheless, traumatic memories of school dinners quickly faded. The sky was so blue and clear up here. Later, at dusk, we would see a pair of eagles circling on the breeze.

Foreign visitors to Sicily bypass the Nebrodi and, superficially, it's easy to see why. The better-known Madonie mountains are quicker to reach from Palermo, and there aren't any obvious tourist attractions here. Many villages fall short of being picture-postcard perfect. Others show signs of a plasterer slipping off for lunch 10 years ago and forgetting to finish the job. But for dedicated pork lovers the Nebrodi mountains hold a trump card: they are home to an indigenous black-skinned pig called the suino nero. Once spurned by butchers because of its small size and thick coating of fat, this free-roaming pig is now enjoying a comeback. Having eaten yards of deliciously spicy Sicilian salsiccia over the years I was excited about what the suino nero could deliver in terms of sausage. Rosario Gugliotta, a representative of the Slow Food movement, offered to show me where to find it.

Sicilian black pigs. Photograph: Corbis

Longi was the base for our mission. Set in the heart of the national park, Longi is a fairly typical village for the area, with a pretty historic centre hidden behind more recent development. Mass emigration and an ageing population once threatened its existence but now, thankfully, the whole region seems to be coming alive with new ideas. Charm and eccentricity abound; passion, too. A beekeeper in a nearby village showed us how he uses his own sustainable honey to make natural cough remedies. A reclusive former celebrity hairdresser showed us his collection of ceramics made out of chocolate powder and then gave us a tour of the mountain farmhouse he's turning into a hiker's hotel. Perhaps confusingly for the modern traveller, money isn't what makes these people smile.

Wherever we went, natural beauty leaned in from all sides – valleys, lakes and forests of beech waiting to be explored either on foot or, as the locals prefer, in elderly Fiats. On our two-day visit we saw various birds of prey in the sky and vultures housed in huge cages prior to being reintroduced into the wild.

After a long day's drive, and knowing that the next day would feature a great deal of pork, we'd asked for a light supper at Longi's osteria. Our host, Calogero, duly piled the table high with varieties of another local speciality: fresh goat's cheese. Fried courgettes and salad from his vegetable patch followed, and soon people at the neighbouring table, noticing the glaring absence of pork in our meal, were offering us slices of their own salami. That opened the floodgates. More salami arrived, followed by steaming plates of pig tripe in tomato sauce. Hardly a light dish, I mentally observed, betraying my lack of enthusiasm for innards in general. But the tripe went down shockingly well with a few glasses of Sicilian Nero d'Avola. An excellent Friuli grappa followed, which aids digestion, apparently. It definitely aided the short walk back to the B&B, which acquired a mystical floating quality.

Peter Jinks at the pig farm

The next morning, after an early start, we breakfasted on granita in the busy seaside resort of Capo d'Orlando, then cut inland once more, forging through bright sunshine towards the Fratelli Borrellos' pig farm, the unofficial standard bearer of the suino nero revival. Strangely, it looked and smelled less like a pig farm than a health farm, but soon shadowy troupes of piglets confirmed that we were in the right place. Each porcine family has its own large, airy plot among the trees with a stone pen called a zimma, where the animals can shelter from seasonal extremes. From the pig's point of view that extra layer of fat comes in handy during mountain winters. It also reaps dividends on the plate, as does all this healthy outdoor living. By the time we'd admired the farm's sun-drenched views of the valley and sniffed the maturing hams, hunger was setting in once more. Sausage time!

Across at the farm's trattoria the meat course was tempting even to those of us who'd indulged in too much pasta. Primed for the perfect sausage moment, my fork flashed forwards. But the sausage it speared, to my surprise, was actually a bit thin and timid-looking. It proved to be firm under the tooth and mild – almost bland – on the tastebuds. Where was the jag of red pepper one usually encountered in Sicilian sasizza, and the fragrant tang of fennel seed? Voicing doubts, I was assured by my lunch companions that this was how a grilled (as opposed to fried) salsiccia ought to be: slim, uncluttered, true.

Hmm. But aren't all encounters with so-called perfection a little disappointing? Gazing platterwards I selected a thin slice of meat, slightly charred at the edges but softly yielding under the blade of the knife. In the mouth it was heavenly. I moved on to the chop, whose fatty rind had a smokiness that rendered it exceptional. But the cut I'd just eaten a moment ago – now that was special.